Thoughts for Daddy

I think of my father.

I think of the times we were little children, I think of the evenings when he came back from work with a book from the Martine series for me and a minicar for my brother, and I think of his sleepy fairytales, which he used to tell as a lullaby to us, his babies.

I think of all the gifts he gave me every year and every day.

I think of his proud smile he always wore anytime I came back from school with excellent marks, I think of the phrase he always said every time people said good things about me : « My little girl is nice, cute and smart ».

I think of my childhood years, when I always had every single thing I wanted, all I had to do was to ask Papa, he’d have bought the entire world for his beloved children.

I think of the turbulent days of my teenage, as I would fight him for a guy and for a night out.

I think of the afternoons, rainy and sunny, when, upon returning from highschool, I used to go pick him up at his work. And so everybody would say hello to me, because everybody loved my daddy, the nicest boss ever, and the only one who often stayed late until the evening. My father was a hardworker, he gave all his life and all his body to work, to possess with both of his proper hands the power to give us all a beautiful life, to me, to my mother, and to my two little brothers.

I often hated him for not having been there as often as he’d have wanted, that we’d have loved and prefered. But everything he did had only one goal : to be able to give the best for his growing three, the best for the love of his life, my mother, the only woman he had ever known and loved.

And then, suddenly I think, once again, of the days when I was in Germany, when he would call so often just to ask if I did good, if I had no problems, if everything was well.

And I think of my wedding day, when he gave me to Jonathan. And once more, I had hated him, because a marriage hadn’t really been in our projects. During one and a half year that followed, I treated him so badly because of this, and it is only today that I regret, that I would punish myself with a lifelong hatred for having hated someone who loved me, all just too much, unconditionally.

My father is dead, buried ten feet underneath the ground. Down under he’d hear nothing more, he’d never have known that I’ve finally come to realize how much I loved him, how many times I think of him everyday, every single moment that passes by my beating heart, with a neverending phrase that starts with an « if only I have ».

And my thoughts would always come back to an evening, the evening where he had breathed his last breath. The night we said goodbye, forevermore.

As, with his last great effort, my dying daddy had opened his eyes, to see each of us one by one, all his life, all his family, all his soul and all his life : a single teardrop fell down to his cheeks. A single teardrop. And he closed his eyes, he had finished his farewell to the living world, he had crossed over to another universe, so far, untouchable.